


Vampires aren't fluffy bunnies

by Aethelar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Smut, and everything that entails, and some offscreen death of non-named characters, including - Freeform, vampire!Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8946460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: So. SO. Guess who (finally) watched Fright Night. Guess who has just had an hour and a half of Colin Farrell playing a vampire. Guess what this means.This means that Percival Graves, salty, bitchy fucker that we all know and love, is about to get very intimately acquainted with what it means to be a demon of the night.





	1. Chapter 1

It starts, as most of Graves’ troubles tend to, while he’s with Grindelwald. In this universe Grindelwald has gone down the cliched route, added a bit of drama and flair to his life. I mean, come on. Look at the way he swept about in Graves’ coat, look at the pretentious last line he threw Newt’s way when he was captured. You can’t tell me Grindelwald isn’t a complete dramaqueen underneath all of that spiked hair and bleach.

He keeps Graves locked to a wall, iron manacles around his wrists that suppress and block the flow of magic. A wizard’s hands are his life - who ever heard of someone shooting spells out their nose? (Graves will damn well try to sneeze fire if it gets him free, but as yet the most he’s done is made sparks dance through his eyebrows. Not useful.) The manacles are raised above his head, chained in place in a way that makes his shoulders ache and his hands numb.

At first, that’s all Grindelwald needs. But Graves - Graves’ city is in danger. Graves’ _aurors_  are in danger. He floods the manacles, wearing away at the enchantments on them bit by runic bit, working his way to freedom one hour at a time. Grindelwald has met his type before. Dedicated. _Driven._  He won’t stop until he’s free or dead, not unless Grindelwald breaks him first.

So he breaks him. How could Graves still fight for his aurors, Grindelwald reasons, if he himself is a dark creature that his aurors would kill on sight?

Grindelwald. Grindelwald, darling, allow me to introduce you to Percival Graves. He does not stop. Ever. You could kill the man and he’d come back as a ghost if he thought his aurors needed him to. Being turned into a vampire is a _trifling annoyance_  that Graves stubbornly refuses to acknowledge beyond investing in some heavy duty sun-blocker potion when the burns get too bad.

Graves gets himself free, in the end, and he storms back into the mess that Grindelwald left behind. He marches down his corridors barking insults and dragging the junior aurors back to the practice room to have their asses handed to them in training and throwing an absolute  _hissy fit_  about the fact that Grindelwald failed to complete even a single item of paperwork. He tears through his aurors like a foul mouthed jarvey and grumps at Picquery when she doesn’t get out his way fast enough and everyone is so damn _relieved_  to have him back.

So relieved that they don’t notice the way his hands shake. The way he clutches at his coffee like a lifeline, hiding behind his mug whenever anyone gets too close. The way he all but flinches back from people, the way he keeps his windows open in the middle of winter and drinks in fresh air like a drowning man to keep from losing himself in the smell of blood. He’s going mad. He’s surrounded by living, breathing, _beating_  hearts and he’ll die if he doesn’t give in soon - but he’d rather die than do that. It puts something of a time limit on his work, trying to fix things, trying to get everything ready for the successor he hasn’t yet picked to follow him. It makes for a lot of late nights and early starts, a lot of saying fuck it to pretences and just working round the clock. The vampiric lack of need for sleep is a mighty handy thing.

It’s on one of these all nighters that he meets Newt at three in the morning. _Why_  exactly Newt is in the auror department at three in the morning he isn’t quite sure, because his mind is preoccupied with other things.

Namely, the fact that with no one else around to provide background noise, he can hear Newt’s heartbeat echoing like a siren call through the empty room. Or the fact that the auror department smells stale, old papers and coffee dregs, but Newt walks through the middle like something sweet and pure.

Graves’ eyes burn. His vision washes, blues and greens fading out to nothing but details becoming sharply clear; he doesn’t need to see them to know that his eyes are flooded black. His gums itch as his teeth try to push through. He leans against the doorway for support, gripping the wood with claw-tipped fingers to keep himself in place.

“Hey,” he calls, getting Newt’s attention. An intruder is an intruder and Graves is an auror before he’s a vampire. He pushes the bloodlust down. “The fuck are you?”

Newt turns. “Mr Graves?” he asks. Graves tries to think if he’s seen the man _(smelt the man)_ before, but he doesn’t think he has. “Sorry for, for the intrusion, I was just looking for - I mean…” He trails off, head tilted and frowning as he looks at Graves. The movement exposes the long line of his neck, and Graves has to dig sharp nails into his palm to keep himself focussed. 

“At three in the morning?” he says, fighting to stay on track. Newt steps closer, closing the distance between them and Graves sucks in a sharp breath. “Never mind. Get out. Look later, leave now.” Newt is still walking towards him, cautious and slow but _still getting closer_  and Graves is all but hanging off the doorway for support now. “ _Go_ ,” he barks.

Newt pauses, barely an arm’s width away. He smells of honey, of iron, the sweet-sticky-red of blood, and Graves can see his pulse against the freckled skin of his neck.

“When was the last time you fed?” Newt asks quietly.

Graves flinches back, panic rising as a sharp counterpoint to hunger. “The fuck does that mean,” he spits out, keeping his teeth clenched to hide his lengthening canines.

“You’re starving. You’re - how are you still _functioning_? You should be insane by this point, or comatose, or - doesn’t it hurt?”

Yes. _Fucking crap yes_  it fucking hurts, every inch of every nerve cell burning up with need and the tremors and the muscle spasms he can’t control and Newt is there, right there, and _why the fuck won’t he go away._

_“Please,”_  Graves begs. He can’t hear if there’s a response. He can’t - there’s only the heartbeat, drumming in his ears. His eyes are closed but he can see the red of his eyelids and Newt’s heart is beating faster now. Graves feels like he’s drowning in the scent of him.

Newt’s wrist brushes against his lips.

Graves throws himself back against the door frame, scrabbling along the wall until he’s pressed into the corner. His stares at Newt, open-mouthed and chest heaving as he pants. His eyes are fully black and his teeth are sharp and bare.

“The fuck - “ he manages, but the rest of the words are swallowed by a keening whine when Newt steps closer again. His coat is draped over the back of one of the chairs. His left sleeve is rolled up to the elbow. His pulse thuds against the exposed skin of his wrist.

“You need it,” Newt says, calm and coaxing and slow. “You can’t just ignore it. It won’t go away - you need this.”

“I’ll hurt you,” Graves protests. His eyes are fixed on the _beat beat beat_  of blood, blue veins against pale skin, he _wants._

“You won’t kill me.” Newt lifts his arm again and Graves crumbles.

The first wash of blood over his tongue is heaven.

He moans, pulling on Newt’s arm to draw him in closer. Newt stumbles, tripping forward with his other hand out to balance him against the wall, and it’s just so _easy_  for Graves to wind an arm around the slighter man’s waist and hold him there. Graves leans back, holding Newt’s wrist vertical so the blood pools and drips down his arm. He licks the long stripe of it and has to close his eyes against the burst of pleasure, the sweetness of the blood mingling with the salt of Newt’s skin on his tongue.

“Oh,” Newt breathes out. His eyes are wide, cheeks flushed; with Newt leaning against his arm on the wall for balance and Graves pulling him in at the waist, they’re pressed together, a line of warmth that sends electric sparks through both of them. Newt shuffles his feet, trying to give them a bit of space but Graves will have none of it. He growls, tightening his grip until Newt is flush against him.

“Oh,” he repeats back, almost mocking in his mimicry. The wound on Newt’s wrist is already closing, Graves’ saliva healing the bloody punctures, but Graves’ attention has shifted.

The top button of Newt’s shirt is undone. His collar is knocked askew, sitting open over his neck.

His neck.

Graves drops Newt’s wrist, lifting a hand to push sweat-soaked curls out of the way. Newt shivers at the brush of claws and Graves doesn’t bother to suppress his smile. “Look at you,” he murmurs, dipping his head to slide his cheek against Newt’s.

“Graves - “ Newt gasps, clutching at the front of Graves’ shirt for balance. Graves shushes him. He dips lower, running his nose up Newt’s neck and inhaling the honey-sweet scent of him.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, lips brushing against Newt’s pulse. Newt’s breathing hitches, his heartbeat rabbit-fast. Graves darts his tongue out to lick and asks again, voice low and rough. “Do you want me?”

“ _Yes.”_

It’s all Graves needs. He rests his teeth against Newt’s throat, just the barest amount of pressure needed to push through. Warm blood spills out into his mouth, dribbling over the edge of his lips and down Newt’s neck. He groans, tugging at Newt’s hair to position his head better and pulling his body in closer with his other arm. Newt works a knee in between Graves legs, hips pressing forwards and grinding against Graves, and they break away with ragged, heaving chests.

“Oh god,” Newt mumbles. “Oh god, oh god oh god why have you stopped oh god -”

Graves huffs out a breath of laughter. “Sorry,” he says, and bends his head to Newt’s neck again. He’s more careful this time, slower, sealing his mouth over the sluggishly bleeding wounds and not letting a drop past his lips. The blood slides down his throat like - like silk, like velvet, like ice cream on a hot day like _nothing at all_. The taste of it, the warmth it brings (how had Graves not noticed how cold he’d been?) the smell of honey and life and _Newt,_ they layer together, overlapping and mixing with Newt’s gasped, garbled moans.

Graves loses himself in it.

“… Graves?”

He sinks his teeth in further, scraping against the skin of Newt’s neck. The flow of blood has slowed, Newt’s pulse going faint, and Graves laps hungrily at what there is. He tries a different place, pulling Newt roughly down and reaching for another stretch of pale skin. Newt pushes weakly against his chest and Graves growls, turning them so that he can trap Newt’s arms against the wall.

“Graves, wait - “

His claws leave furrows of blood just under Newt’s hairline and he pauses a moment to lick them shut, saliva sealing the wounds. Newt’s head lolls bonelessly against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering closed, and Graves finds himself drifting to kiss those eyelids, the freckle-dusted nose, the half-open mouth.

Newt’s lips form a soundless word, brushing against Graves’. He sags against Graves, knees too weak to hold his weight. Graves could hold him up (Graves could hold up the world, he could lift buildings and outrun a fighter jet with Newt’s strength flowing through him) but he chooses not to, sinking down into an untidy sprawl against the wall with Newt cradled in his lap.

Newt is limp and pale in his arms.

“Hey,” he says, gripping at Newt’s shoulder. The bloodlust is receding, heady and sated, and Newt isn’t waking up.

“Hey - no, don’t do this. Come on.”

He shakes Newt harder.

“No no you can’t, I told you not to stay, I said - wake up. Wake up!”

Newt doesn’t reply.

* * *

Graves paces. The lighting over head flickers, irritating in its lack of any pattern or rhythm. Monitoring spells beep down the corridor. A pair of nurses two floors down are discussing an experimental potion for bedsores. Graves reaches the end of the hall, turns, and resumes pacing.

A door opens to his left. He’s standing in front of it in less than a second, too worried to remember to move at a human speed.

Tina jumps, hand twitching toward her wand. “Shit, don’t do that!”

“How is he? Is he - will he -”

She cuts him off with an impatient expression. “He’s fine. You brought him in time, they gave him the potions - he’s _fine.”_

Graves slumps back. “He’s fine,” he repeats. The adrenalin drains out of him, leaving him feeling exhausted and wrung out. “He’s fine. He’s really fine?”

Tina nods. She’s tense and carefully blank; Graves doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking behind her strictly schooled expression. Her boss just almost killed her best friend. Fuck, her boss was hiding the fact that he was a _dark creature_  from her for almost a month, that can’t be going down well.

“You can see him, if you want,” she says, voice measured and even. Graves balks.

“I - no, that’s fine, I’ll just -”

“He asked to see you.”

“He nearly fucking _died_  the last time he saw me.”

_“Graves.”_ She raises a finger and jabs him in the chest. “Go and see him. Do _not_  fuck this up. Go!”

Graves tumbles into the room. The doctor nods wearily at him from where he’s collecting his equipment and lets himself out, closing the door behind him. It’s just Graves and Newt left.

Graves studies the room. It’s small - there’s a metal-framed bed in the centre with crisp white sheets and a matching chair either side. The walls are off-cream, the floor plain wood, and the window is charmed to show a view of the finger lakes in autumn. The gently domed hills are covered in a carpet of golden-brown and the sky is just lighting up with rosy-pink dawn.

It’s easier to look at the charmed image than to look at Newt, pale and small against the white of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” Graves tells the backlit clouds. “I shouldn’t have - I should’ve made you leave.”

There’s a rustle as Newt pulls himself up to lean against the pillows behind him.

“I was the one who insisted,” he protests. “You’re looking better now. Did the blood help?”

“I’m looking _better?_ ” Graves snarls, whirling to glare at Newt. “I could’ve killed you!”

Newt sets his jaw mulishly. “You didn’t,” he says. “I told you you wouldn’t. Besides, it’s only because you starved yourself for so long - which, why on earth would you do that to yourself. Next time will be easier.”

_Next time._  Fucking - Graves has to stop himself marching across the room and strangling Newt, no matter how pathetic he looked. “There won’t _be_  a next time.”

“Well that’s hardly practical. You can’t just ignore it and hope for the best - oh my god. Oh my god! That’s exactly what you did! You just thought it would _go away_  if you ignored it hard enough? What kind of plan was that?”

“I had a plan! I had a timescale, I had things sorted out, I had a successor in mind -”

Newt blanches. Given how pale he is to start with it’s an impressive feat, but the wounded expression he throws at Graves overrides it.

They fall into an uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t want you to go,” Newt finally says. He sounds miserable and downtrodden, and Graves sighs as he moves to sit in one of the chairs.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I don’t… I don’t either, but. It was the only thing I could think of. I mean, I’m a _vampire_.” It’s the first time he’s said it outloud, and it feels like there should be ominous lighting or a crack of doom to accompany the words. There aren’t.

“I noticed,” Newt says dryly, ducking his head to hide - the fuck. To hide his blush. Graves leans forwards, looking up at Newt’s now blazing _scarlet_  face incredulously. The blood replenishers seem to have kicked in, at least, but he can’t say much for Newt’s taste.

“… Vampires aren’t walks in the park and fluffy bunnies, you know,” he says slowly.

Newt flicked his gaze up, eyes dark and pupils blow wide. He licked his lips, quirking them into a grin when Graves’ gaze snaps to his mouth.

“I’m not quite the fluffy bunny sort,” Newt answers, and that’s not a grin, that’s a full out smirk when he catches Graves eyes and tilts his head back in challenge.

“Fuck,” is all Graves can say to that.

Eventually, they do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What up, folks. I feel like writing angry sex so let’s have some angry sex. Newt, Graves, go. Bring the fangs, Graves, your vampire self has been requested often enough.
> 
> I’d say get to the bedroom and take your time, but fuck that. Fuck everything about that. We’re with Graves, because we’re always with Graves, and he’s doing something monumentally stupid. He knows this. He’s not blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This does actually follow on from the previous one, but more in a sequel sort of way than in a multichapter fic way. Still, I put it here because it relates. Enjoy!

What up, folks. I feel like writing angry sex so let’s have some angry sex. Newt, Graves, go. Bring the fangs, Graves, your vampire self has been requested often enough.

I’d say get to the bedroom and take your time, but fuck that. Fuck everything about that. We’re with Graves, because we’re always with Graves, and he’s doing something monumentally stupid. He knows this. He’s not blind.

But please, what other fucking choice does he have? He wasn’t supposed to survive Grindelwald’s little game. He _knows_  this. If he was, then it was only to be set loose on MACUSA like the blood drinking fucking demon he is, to, to - to what? Starve himself on some insane self-righteous quest for salvation? To drive himself mad surrounded by blood and heartbeats and _people_  until he just flipped and rampaged through MACUSA? Or screw MACUSA, maybe Grindelwald wanted Graves to go out on the town and paint the fucking sky _red_  with the no-maj’s blood, see how Picquerry tried to cover _that_  one up.

Fuck Grindelwald. Fuck vampires. Fuck the entire fucking world. And most of all, fuck _Graves_  for ever thinking it could be ok. He nearly killed the first person to work out what he was, didn’t that say something? He put Newt in _hospital._  Hospital. Newt tried to help him, and Graves drained him dry of everything the damn fool had in his veins and almost killed him. But what kind of idiot, what seven kinds of blind, naive _fool_  did it make Graves to think that everything could be ok after that? That, what, he’d go on managing the department by day and sneak into Newt’s bed by night for a bit of casual bloodletting and sex between friends? Partners. Whichever one it was.

Not that it would matter now. Bitter enemies, perhaps? That one really bad mistake Newt made in New York? The piece of fucking _scum_  that Newt should have known better than to try and help?

It shouldn’t hurt this much. Newt will be better off. Graves is - is - Newt will be better off, and if he hates Graves, then fine. Teaches him not to get involved with vampires. Important life lesson that he should’ve already known. Everyone knows this, Newt. Why don’t you. Why can’t you just leave well enough alone, not everyone wants to be saved, not everyone _deserves_  - 

Vampires can’t apparate, so Graves strides out of the city on foot. He sneers at the no-majs that stop to stare at him, the pale and ashy-faced women huddling on the other side of the road and gawping at the blood on his shirt. He skirts the orange glow of light under the streetlamps in favour of the shadows and takes the backstreets and the cramped alleys to avoid people. Fuck them. And fuck the fucking rain and the fucking puddles and the fucking hole in his fucking shoe and just _fuck._

He’s not crying. It’s just the rain. The blood trickling down his face from the corners of his eyes, warm and tacky against his skin - it’s just the rain. The aching hole in his chest, the way his legs are shaking and the iron weight that’s sinking into him now the adrenalin wears off, it’s all _just the rain._

“Fuck,” he chokes out, leaning back and letting his shoulder hit the wet brick of the alley wall. He’s not wearing his coat, he realises dimly. Not even wearing his coat, just a sodden shirt. Maybe the rain will wash the stain out of it. He turns and slides down the wall until he’s sitting on his heels, head tipped back and staring blearily at the thin band of sky visible between the buildings. He’s not even made it out of Manhattan yet. “What the fuck am I doing?”

“Oh, I would _really_  like to know the answer to _that_.”

Graves scrambles to his feet, turning to face Newt with horror and dread. The other man _stalks_  down the alley towards Graves, his coat flaring wide around his hips and his face set in angry scowl.

“Newt,” Graves says carefully, one step away from holding his hands out placatingly. His head tilts minutely towards the other end of the alley and he shifts his weight, preparing to make a run for the road and the people and the chance to escape and -

Newt waves his wand in a sharp, upwards jab and the ground surges into a concrete wall. Another slash and iron crosses unfold from the top, tall and jagged against the moon behind them. Graves flinches. Bang goes that option.

“Stop. running. away,” Newt growls, swinging his wand to point threateningly at Graves. Which is kind of a dick move, actually. The loss of his magic has been one of the worst things about this whole vampire experience, Graves doesn’t appreciate being reminded of it now. His lips curl into a growl of his own, one that rumbles in his chest and brings his teeth curving down into sharp points.

“Why?” he sneers. “So you can take me home with the rest of your creatures, tuck me into bed and go and explain to everyone how it wasn’t my fault, it’s just my nature?”

“Graves,” Newt says, but Graves doesn’t feel like stopping.

“Are you going to tell them I’m not _dangerous_ , Newt, are you going to somehow smile at them and _fix everything_  with, with love and hope and fluffy little ducklings?”

“Graves!”

Newt is standing closer now, wand slipped up his sleeve but arms still partially raised. Graves shoves at him, a hard movement that sends the other man stumbling back.

“I am not _fluffy!_ ” he roars. “I am not safe and I’m not one of your creatures and people are _dead_ , Newt, you can’t fix it because people are fucking dead and I’m the - I -” he gives his head a violent shake and turns to the cross-studded wall Newt raised. “People are dead,” he says over his shoulder as he lowers himself into a crouch. “I ripped their throats out and they’re dead.” The wall isn’t that tall. He’ll hurt himself on the crosses, the type of burn that will take a month to heal and scar when it’s done - dammit Newt, _dick fucking move_ \- but he can clear it.

A sharp kick to his ankle makes him lose his balance. Newt slamming into his back and pressing him tight against the wall makes him lose his breath in a long, painful wheeze. One of his arms is crushed between his chest and the wall and Newt has the other twisted up behind him.

“Newt,” he grits out. “Why the fuck are you trying to physically restrain a vampire.”

“I’m physically restraining a friend,” Newt corrects, because Newt is an idiot. Friends or whatever the fuck they are, Graves is still a vampire and he shakes his arm out of Newt’s hold with laughable ease. He turns around so that his back is to the wall, Newt’s arms bracketing him on either side, and brings clawed hands up to rest against Newt’s neck.

Newt’s pulse is stutteringly fast. Thank fuck for that, because if Newt was calm then Graves might have to hurt him out of principle.

“I ripped their throats out,” he repeats, digging his claws in. Black creeps into his eyes and his incisor teeth lengthen into fangs. “Because I’m a vampire and that’s what vampires _do._ ”

Newt sets his jaw stubbornly and raises his chin. “You acted under external influence and not of your own volition. The law considers you innocent.”

“That’s for _Imperius_  victims, you can’t just use whichever laws you like because they’re convenient.”

“How is it any different? Someone hits you with a bloodlust spell and you do things you’d never do otherwise, how is that any different?”

“If there hadn’t been a vampire on the team the team wouldn’t be dead, _that’s how it’s fucking different!_ ”

“And so, what, the best solution is to just turn tail and run? To _abandon_  us? How the fuck does that help anything?”

“It helps by keeping me from hurting you!”

Graves is growling by this point, a low, warning snarl that scrapes against the back of his throat. There’s blood under claws from where he’s gripping Newt too hard and making him bleed and they’re both breathing heavily by this point, both too angry and too worked up to let it go. Newt doesn’t usually swear. Graves doesn’t usually admit to his emotions like that. The whole thing has gone out of control and Graves just wants it to stop, wants to get out of Manhattan and out of the rain and out of this sodding shirt still soaked in his aurors’ blood.

Newt stares at him, eyes flat and hard. “You won’t,” he says, threat and promise all in one, and does he know what he’s threatening? Does he have any fucking idea what would happen, what it would do to Graves if he was wrong?

“Don’t,” he growls, but Newt is already leaning forwards. Graves’ claws drag on his skin before Graves can retract them and there’s blood running freely down Newt’s neck now, mixing with the raindrops on his skin.

“You won’t hurt me,” Newt says again, each word making his lips brush against Graves’.

“You’re a fucking moron,” Graves answers, but he closes the distance between them all the same.

It’s not a gentle kiss. There are teeth and tongues - _fangs_ , Graves has his fangs out and Newt’s lip is sliced open and bleeding - and Newt’s hands tug painfully at Graves’ hair. Graves moans, the combination of the copper-tang of the bloody kiss and the warmth of Newt pressing against him making his dick sit up and taking fucking notice of the situation. Newt crowds him back against the wall, the bricks cold and rough through the thin material of Graves’ shirt, and Graves responds by hooking his hands under Newt’s thighs and lifting, one jerky movement that sends Newt pitching forwards with his hands on the wall for balance.

“Warn a guy,” Newt gasps, shifting his weight to a better position. The movement drags his arse over Graves’ dick and he laughs, harsh and broken.

“Hypocrite,” he accuses. He arches his back away from the wall so that Newt can slide his legs around and hook them over his waist. The hands that were supporting Newt’s thighs move up, running along corded muscle to knead at Newt’s arse. His claws catch on Newt’s trousers and tear pinprick-rips in the material, but fuck, Graves doesn’t care about that.

Graves cares about the fact that Newt’s new position has him hunched over, his elbows on the wall either side of Graves’ head and his neck hovering scant inches from Graves’ mouth. Graves cares about the rain-slick skin sliding against his as Newt rubs their cheeks together, the warm puff of air against his ear and the sharp pain as Newt bites down on the lobe. He snarls, leaning forwards and tugging his ear out of Newt’s teeth as he licks a long stripe up Newt’s neck. Blood from the claw wounds mingles with the rain and he takes a moment to freeze there, his lips on Newt’s neck and his teeth against Newt’s thundering pulse point and his hands sliding up Newt’s shirt and dipping greedy fingers beneath his waistband.

Newt nips at the shell of his ear. “Don’t bite,” he whispers.

“Fuck you,” Graves replies. He hovers, his teeth aching in his gums and he can see the blood vessels beneath Newt’s skin, smell the honey-iron-blood-Newt-blood, he can _taste_  Newt on his lips and all he has to do. Is.

Bite.

Newt runs a hand through his hair, fingernails scraping against Graves’ scalp. He braces a knee against the wall for balance and grinds down with his hips, one hand dipping beneath Graves’ collar to wrap around the back of his neck. Graves stays rock still, his grip almost painful on Newt’s arse and his mouth resting against Newt’s skin.

“Don’t do it,” Newt repeats, dipping his head. The movement drags his neck against Graves’ teeth and he swallows convulsively, stifling a whine at the back of his throat. Curly, sodden hair brushes against his jaw as Newt breathes out against the side of his neck and he shivers, Graves shivers because Newt, Newt what are you doing what are you -

Newt bites down, blunt teeth digging in and worrying against Graves’ neck. Graves snarls, ripping his teeth away from Newt and throwing his head back against the wall hard enough to see stars. He digs his claws in convulsively, scraping against the base of Newt’s spin and whimpers because fuck, fuck fuck - 

“- fuck Newt _fuck_  I need, please Newt _fuck please_  - “

Newt blows on the mark he’s just made, admiring the way Graves pants. “No,” he says, and Graves _hisses_  at him, eyes solid black and mouth open and gasping for air. “No biting,” Newt says again, running his hands over Graves’ face. He keeps his voice steady, steady as he can - Graves, chest heaving and utterly wrecked and moaning Newt’s name like a prayer, is not _exactly_  conducive to steadiness - and leans forward again. There’s blood on his lips from Graves’ brutal kiss, blood on his neck from the sluggishly bleeding claw wounds, probably blood on his _arse_  if the way Graves is holding him is any indication. He licks his bottom lip to clean off the blood and Graves moans.

“Don’t bite,” and it’s almost a plea because everything Newt knows about vampires says that they can’t not. It’s in their nature to be dangerous. Graves’ black eyes are fixed on Newt’s lips as Newt dips his head and waits.

“Fuck. You,” Graves says finally. He surges up to capture Newt’s lips, one of his hands burying itself in Newt’s hair to pull him closer. He sucks Newt’s bottom lip into his mouth and bites, _hard,_  reopening the cut - but his teeth are blunt. Human. The hands digging into Newt’s scalp are tipped with fingernails, not claws. Graves has pushed the vampire down.

Newt grins into the kiss and breaks away. “Not in the rain,” he says. Graves groans.

“Scamander, do you have _any idea_  how much I _fucking hate you_  right now -”

They disappear with the loud crack of Newt’s apparation and reappear in his bedroom - his bedroom, Graves’ bedroom, doesn’t matter it’s a _bedroom_  - and tumble into an awkward pile on the bed. Newt lands on his back, flattened and winded by Graves sprawling on top of him. Graves barely takes a second to orientate before he’s lifted himself onto his knees and is tugging his wet shirt over his head.

“ - fucking _tease_  I am going to ruin you, Scamander, you will not be able to fucking _speak_  when I’m done - “

Newt, the little fucking shit, just laughs. “You say the sweetest things, darling,” he says with a coy flutter of his eyelashes and Graves grabs the collar of his shirt and rips it downwards, tearing the buttons and the material as he goes. No biting does not mean no claws. Newt should be fucking _grateful_  that Graves isn’t doing the same thing to his coat, but his trousers are already ripped so Graves feels no shame in tearing those off as well.

He runs his clawed fingers ever so lightly over the bulge in Newt’s boxers and smirks when it twitches. Newt is sprawled back on the bed, propped up on his elbows in nothing but his boxers and coat. His breathing is ragged, eyes blown wide and dark, and he’s fucking _delicious._

Graves presses his palm against Newt’s hip, sliding his thumb under the waistband and rubbing against Newt’s leaking head. Newt gasps, knees falling open wider and kicking Graves forwards with his heel, but Graves keeps up the slow pace. He draws his hand down torturously slowly, fingers hooking under the edge of the boxers and pulling them down as his knuckles scrape over the sensitive skin at the top of Newt’s thighs. He bends down and blows on the tip of Newt’s erection, fighting the urge to bring his teeth out again at the sound Newt makes.

“It’s such a shame,” he murmurs conversationally.

“Oh god Graves don’t you dare,” Newt moans. Graves continues as though he hadn’t heard him.

“I can think of so many things I’d like to do here, you know? So many things.”

“ _Graves._ ”

“I could lick it, all slow and wet from the base up. I could take it in my mouth, run my tongue over every side of it.” He flicks his tongue out, just enough to taste the salty precum.

“ _Graves I swear._ ”

“I could… swallow it. All the way down.” And, just to demonstrate, he wraps his lips around the head and bobs his mouth down in one smooth slide. Newt groans, his elbows giving way and his head dropping down against the pillows. Graves lifts himself back up, swirling his tongue around the tip and dipping it into Newt’s slit as he lets go.

“Except someone told me not to bite,” he continues in the same silky voice. “And I wouldn’t want to tempt myself, would I?”

“ _Ngngh,_ ” is all Newt says to that, wrecked and panting and sounding as though Graves is causing him physical pain. There’s a part of Graves that marvels at being the one in control. Graves is _never_  the one in control; by this point he’s usually lost in a bloodlust haze, and he can feel it lurking at the edges of his mind, but he’s got Newt spread out before him like an offering and he pushes the haze back.

He crawls up the bed, knees astride Newt’s waist and hands resting on Newt’s chest. No oil, but what the fuck is vampirical healing for not for times like this, so he braces himself on one arm and reaches the other back to position Newt at his entrance before sinking down and taking him in in one.

“Fuck,” he pants, gritting his teeth against the burn of it. Newt grips his thighs, fingers digging in and eyes squeezed shut. He whimpers, hips stuttering up into Graves in aborted movements. “Fuck,” Graves says again, because it deserves saying twice. “I’m moving, I’m mov- _fuck_ -ing.” He rocks forwards, hiding a grimace at the discomfort (oil, next time, definitely oil) and experimentally pushes back and it’s ok, he can do this, he can -

Newt brushes against something that makes Graves snarl, fangs out, fingers curling into claws, stars dancing behind his eyes and holy fucking _god_  do that again. “Newt,” he whimpers, and that’s about all the words he can manage so thank fuck Newt gets the message and takes over because Graves is struggling to breathe. He sits back to meet Newt’s thrusts, working out the rhythm so that they move together. The burning ache fades to something satisfying, something that says vampire healing or not Graves will feel this in the morning and just at that moment that’s a fucking _fabulous_  thing - he lifts himself up and all but _slams_  himself down onto Newt, gasping and greedy as Newt hits that fucking spot again and Newt’s whimpering now, the rhythm faltering as his breath comes in unsteady gasps and no Newt, no you can’t Graves is so close so close Newt _fuck please_  -

Newt wraps a shaking hand around Graves erection and Graves could cry from the pleasure shooting through him. He’s torn between wanting to push back onto Newt’s dick or forwards into Newt’s hand and he can feel himself winding tighter and Newt’s hand is hot and electric on his dick and his thumb presses over the head and Newt’s hips come to an unsteady stop and

“ _Graves,_ ” Newt breathes out reverently, his hand gripping Graves in one sharp, spasmodic movement and Graves is undone. He comes in hot spurts, all but collapsing forwards as his legs give way underneath him and he curls over Newt. He’s panting, open mouthed and exhausted, and Newt’s hand is trapped awkwardly against Graves’ stomach and there’s a sticky mess sliding between them where their chests meet and Graves is not moving from his position sprawled over Newt. Not ever.

“Fuck,” he manages half heartedly, and Newt, the fucker (hah, Graves made a joke) just pats him on the back and laughs.

 

**Bonus:**

“So,” Graves says, drawing the word out slowly. “ _Fucking me_  was your big plan to stop people thinking I’m a monster?”

Newt throws him a look that would be dirty if it wasn’t so satisfied and sleepy. “You’re the only one that thinks you’re a monster,” he corrects. “And now you know you can fight bloodlust, so now you don’t think you’re a monster.”

It works, in a simplistic way. It’s bigger than that, of course - people still died. Graves was still used as the murder weapon. He doesn’t know who leaked his vampiric nature but it’s been leaked, and he’s going to have to deal with that. On the other hand, that’s a thought for the morning. A more pressing thought is:

“Does this mean no more biting during sex?”

Newt burrows further into his side. “No,” he tells Graves’ ribs. “You still need to feed.”

Which is… sad, almost. Graves quite liked having all mental faculties available to him during sex. It was fun.

Newt lifted his head to glare at him. “I can _hear_  you being an idiot. Stop it. It means biting sex where you feed _and_  non biting sex. Twice as much sex. Obviously.”

Oh. Graves can live with that.

Newt snuggles back down and pulls the blanket up over himself. “ _All_  the sex,” he says with a final, contented smile and drifts off to sleep.


End file.
